So Many Ways to Begin

He said anyway, I was just phoning to see if there'd been any post for me, any messages I need to deal with?

She said no, nothing that can't wait. We can cope without you, you know, she added, laughing.

Oh, no, yes, of course, he said. Well, okay then. I should go.

Take care then, she said as he hung up.

He left Donegal Town and took a bus to Kilrean, a smaller place which didn't look like much more than a hamlet on the map. He was the only passenger on the bus, and he sat near the front, looking through the tall windscreen. The driver didn't say anything to him. The roads seemed wider than they were in England, but less well made, unfinished, petering off on either side into broken gravelly verges. The driver would sometimes have to steer a wide swerve around a pothole or a stretch of broken tarmac, or swing on to the wrong side of the road to slowly overtake a tractor pulling a trailer piled high with muddy potatoes. Dogs, keeping sluggish watch at the entrances to farmhouse driveways, their heads wedged between their front paws, would look up while the bus was still in the distance, running to meet it, barking and jumping and chasing it furiously away down the road. What few other drivers there were would greet the bus driver with a curt wave, usually just lifting a finger from the steering wheel and nodding, and he wondered whether the driver knew them all.

They stopped outside a pair of shops and a garage. There was a man sitting on a bench outside one of the shops, a black dog curled up by his feet. There was a long burgundy car poking out of the garage workshop, the bonnet open, two men leaning over the engine together. The driver turned to him.

Are you getting off then? he asked. David looked at him, and back out of the window.

Is this Kilrean? he asked.

It is, the man said, pointing at the door to clear up any confusion.

Kilrean, Ballybofey, Raphoe, Kilross; he stayed a night in each, walking around the area, calling into a shop or a bar, ready for conversation but not sure how to begin. Once or twice, with a couple of beers inside him, he said something to a barman like, I'm looking for a woman, Mary, Mary Friel, she was in London during the war, you don't know of anyone do you? And the barman would say something like, I don't know if I can help you there, or that's a long shot isn't it, or we're all looking for a woman, son. And David would smile, and shrug, and say yes, it's a long shot, not to worry; until one evening in Kilross an older man sitting beside him said, Friel was that you said? You want to head up to Fanad if it's Friels you're after.

He phoned Eleanor each evening, a stack of small coins ready beside the phone, and told her what he'd done that day, where he was, who he'd seen or met or spoken to briefly. He turned each coin over in his hand as he spoke, looking at the dates and designs embossed on them, the harps and salmons and bulls. I know it seems strange but it feels like it's worth it, he said. I know she might not even be here but at least I'm getting a look at the place. It's some thing, he said uncertainly. I love you too, he said each evening. Tell Kate I'll be home soon, tell her I love her, tell her to be good. He always paused a moment before putting the phone down, listening to the click and buzz of the broken connection.

He looked out for museums, but there didn't seem to be all that many around. He found one in Letterkenny, and spent the afternoon in there, reading the mainly handwritten display boards above the few artefacts. He read about burial chambers and dolmens, the fragments of shields and beakers and belt buckles found beneath the stacked slabs of rock. He read about farming in the Middle Ages, and expressions of religious faith, and the dominance of the oral culture. He read about the coming of the English and the Scots, the battles against the landlords, the potato blight, the starvation and desperate emigrations, the villages left abandoned and burnt. He read about the uprisings, and partition, and then there were photographs to look at and his interest in the stories faded as he studied the blurred faces looking out at him from those white-washed walls. He didn't know what he was looking for; some familiarity in a glance, a nose, a jawline or a posture which might catch him by surprise, something he could recognise. Something which would make someone stop and say well now, would you look at that. He's got your eyes. He's got your smile. He's got the same tiny curl of skin at the corner of his mouth. That's the spit of you. He wanted a photo he could rip off the wall, and show to someone, and have them say something like this. It would be a start. It would be something to go on.

He remembered when Kate had been born, how people had said these things to him then. Look, she's got your eyes, don't you think? There, that smile, that's pure David Carter, look at that. It had shocked him, hearing people say this, the force of the joy which had erupted inside him, a joy which came from the knowledge, at last, of someone connected to him. Someone in the world who was truly the flesh of his flesh. The only one. There were evenings, holding Kate in his arms, or watching her sleep, when he was frightened by the strength of the feeling surging through him. It was something so much more than love. It was something which made him crumple at the sound of her breathing coming down the telephone line. It was something, he was sure, he would be capable of tearing flesh from bone to defend.

He asked the woman at the front desk of the museum where Fanad was, explaining, when she asked where he wanted to go exactly, that he was looking for someone called Friel. She smiled. Well you're heading in the right direction then, she said. You'll be researching your family tree? she asked, looking up at him through gold-rimmed glasses. He hesitated, and said that he was. She looked in her desk and found him a leaflet - Ancestor Research, A Visitor's Guide - and told him not to say that she'd said but the best place to start would be with Father Dwyer at the church in Kerrykeel. He'll have records, she said. But don't tell him I sent you, she said again, tapping the side of her nose. He promised he wouldn't.

There were no buses until the next day, so he spent the evening in a bar, reading a newspaper and listening to other people's conversations. He phoned Eleanor, but she was busy putting Kate to bed so they just told each other they were fine and said goodnight.

He phoned Anna, and in the middle of talking about the way small museums seemed so reluctant to keep anything in storage, crowding out their displays in a way which was muddled and off-putting but also perhaps more honest, she said I've been thinking about you a lot, have you been thinking about me?

The church in Kerrykeel was set back from the road, low and dark behind a row of trees. There was a pub opposite, single-storeyed, its windows curtained off against the outside, and a shop that looked as though it had been closed all day. He ducked under the arch in the thick boundary wall and followed a path round to the side of the building. A door was half-open, and he could see, on a doormat just inside, a man easing a pair of mud-clodded boots from his feet, his hand jammed against the door frame for support. The man looked up and saw David before he could turn away.

Can I help you there at all? he asked. David hesitated. He'd had difficulty deciding what to ask, how much he should say. The man straightened up and looked at him.

Father Dwyer? David said. The man nodded patiently. Ah, David said, well, I was wondering if it would be possible to have a look at some parish records. I'm doing some research, he said. I mean, if it's not too much trouble. Father Dwyer pulled the door open wider and stood to one side, his thick socks half hanging off the ends of his feet.

I'm sure I can spare a few moments from my busy schedule, he said. What is it you're after exactly?

As he was showing David into the sitting room, once David had tried to explain what he wanted, he said, well, we can have a look but my guess is I'm not going to be much help. He went into another room, and came back with three dark-green record books, heavily bound, the page edges thumb-darkened and worn. Can I get you a cup of tea? he asked.

David nodded. Please, he said, that'd be great. It's been a long day.

He looked at the record books while he listened to the tea being made. He wasn't sure whether to pick them up and start leafing through or if he was expected to wait. He felt nervous sitting beside them, as if Father Dwyer might take them away again, as if this was the only chance he had to thrust them into his bag and sneak off. He reached a hand out to touch the top one, and drew it back again quickly.

Father Dwyer came back into the room with a tea tray, clearing a space on his cluttered coffee table. Excuse the state of the place, he said. He sat down opposite David. Go ahead, he said, take a look. It's all there: births, christenings, weddings, funerals, the whole lot. Well, everything they tell us about, he added, laughing briefly, leaning forward to pour out the tea. David picked up the first book and rested it on his lap, heaving it open to the first page.

Mary Friel, died 1920 (born 1872), the very first entry said in a flowing hand, the glossy ink matted by the years. He glanced down the page and found Michael Friel, John Friel and Dermot Friel; Bridget Friel, Margaret Friel, Nora Friel There was a Mary Friel, born 1927, two lots of Mary Friel, born 1928, and five lots of Mary Friel, born 1929. He looked up at the priest, who shrugged, raising his hands and lowering them again. It's not an unusual name around here, he said. Not an unusual name at all. You'll be tracing your family tree?

In a way, David said, turning the pages and running his finger down endless columns of Frieb, and Dohertys, and Carrs. Another three Mary Frieb, born

in 1930, and four in 1931. Father Dwyer looked at him seriously for a moment.

I get a lot of people tracing family trees, he said. Americans mostly, more so than folk who ended up in England or Scotland. More likely to have lost touch, I suppose, he said, nudging a teacup towards David's side of the table. David kept turning the pages. Mary Friel, died 1932 (born 1925). Mary Friel, married Sean Sweeney, 1933.

But if it was something else, Father Dwyer said, lowering his voice very slightly. If it wasn't the family tree exactly. David looked up. If it was something else, Father Dwyer said again, then I'd say a little caution was needed. He coughed suddenly, bringing his hand to his mouth, sitting forward in his chair. Excuse me, he said. He wiped his mouth with a handkerchief from his pocket and swallowed a few times before continuing.

People can cause upsets, he said, looking down into his tea as he stirred it, when they go about the place asking questions. People can get ideas. Things can be dug up which didn't need to be. David looked up at him, his hands resting on the roughly textured pages of the record book. They heard footsteps outside, loud and brisk on the stone path, and something rattling through the letter box.